


Albuquerque by Night, Amarillo by Morning

by chucks_prophet



Series: The Adventures of Dean Winchester, Vampirically Speaking [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, First Meetings, Gen, Grieving Dean, Heavy Angst, Hint at Destiel, Hitchhiking, Hopeful Ending, Horses, Humor, I promise, M/M, Past Character Death, Wanderer Dean, but also humor, grand canyon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9821828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “Me and Jesse, my husband,” Cesar clarifies, gesturing to the stable some ways back and the adjacent house, an older structure with a flat top held together by Lincoln log-style rafters. “We moved in a few months ago. We used to work exclusively out of Mexico and Texas in the lumber business. This you see around us is our retirement fund at work. We need someone who’s good with the horses. At least until we can get on our feet.”“You mean like a stable boy?” Dean asks.Cesar bites his lip to keep a smile from spilling forward. “Sure, if you wanna call it that.”Part of a series. Can be read alone, but if you wanna know what happens after this, I suggest reading the fic before this. This is the prequel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this one took longer than I thought! But I'm proud of the finished product overall. Less editing on this one, so I'm sorry for any grammatical errors!
> 
> Title inspired by (the second half of it, anyway) the George Strait song. I love me some George Strait.
> 
> Why Jesse and Cesar? BECAUSE  
> I  
> LOVE  
> JESSE  
> AND  
> CESAR  
> .

 

He’s supposed to be in Amarillo, but he only made it to Albuquerque.

Albuquerque, Amarillo.  Tomato, toemato.

Taking the 1-40 West for some odd amount of miles, Dean eventually got off and hiked to the Grand Canyon. Sam’s always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon. Dean, too. When he was little, Dean would ask his mom how deep the Grand Canyon is, and his mom would reply, simply, that it isn’t as deep as her love for him. 

Dean’s always accepted that answer for what it is, and rightfully passed that answer down to Sam—the Bee Gees version anyway, so it would sound like less of a chick-flick—but Sam wouldn’t have any of it, being it a time without good-old fashioned Google, so Dean made him a promise to take him to the Grand Canyon.

The picture’s dusty and faded, but Sam’s smile never dulls. He’s five, and his two bottom teeth are missing. Well, more like tucked under his pillow for the tooth fairy who happened to pop into Sam’s room the same night Dean was up to go to the bathroom and leave Sam two quarters richer. The picture’s black and white, but Dean remembers the rosy red in his chipmunk cheeks, the splash of gold in his hazel eyes, the light brown beauty mark just above his left nostril that would dance whenever he smiled as wide as he is in the picture.

How does that song go? The one he heard back in Kingman? “You can’t see what those shades of gray keep covered”? Dean’s not a fan of country music, but [that song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYGwxf1gCC4) pretty much says it all.

That’s one of the photographs. The other is of him and Sam on Sam’s twenty-first birthday taken after they’ve de-cleansed their livers with a couple beers, with Sam hanging limply around Dean’s shoulder and Dean with his head thrown back laughing. Both their smiles are bright enough to light a thousand lanterns.

That one he keeps.

The other photograph, the one of Sam as a child, he drops into the mouth of the Canyon, and watches as it glides further down until it’s completely out of sight.

As for Amarillo, he has no business there. Neither does he in Albuquerque.

That is, until he stumbles across a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

The first thing to greet him is the asynchronous whinnying of a horse accompanied by his two backup singers, who jog up after the first. Dean smiles. It’s refreshing to see an actual horse rather than the imprinted logo.

He sticks his free hand through the gate, the one not carrying his tote bag. After being put through a rigorous sniff test, the beige horse, the one closest to the enclosure, bows his head: an invitation to pet. Dean does just that, moving his hand over the animal’s oval, grotto-like nostrils, to the top of his flattened head.

Dean laughs when he starts purring. _Purring—_ like a cat. That’s when Dean has no choice but to drop both his bags to enable for a maximum head massage. The horse continues purring. The other horses are soon to follow, nudging the beige horse to get in on some of the action.

“Clarence, let the others have a turn!”

Dean stops and snaps his head to the man coming towards him. His voice is deep and demanding, like the creases in his forehead and the fold that pinches his dark eyebrows, which house light green eyes that to Dean’s surprise, crinkle around the edges when a toothy smile unveils itself as he gestures to the horses. “They like you, huh?”

“I… yeah,” Dean breathes with a small laugh before picking up his bags: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I have to get going anyway.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Amarillo.”

“It’s a long hike to Amarillo,” the man states. Judging by his puffy coat, the flannel, even the horseshoe belt, he’s well-versed in herding cattle.

That’s what Dean would like. Some kind of direction.

Instead he remains stagnant as he shrugs. “I’ve got sturdy feet.”

“You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”

Dean shifts his backpack strap.  

“I’m Cesar,” the man says, offering his hand, “Cesar Cuevas.”

Dean accepts his hand, which has callouses strapped tighter than a saddle on a horse, “Dean. Winchester.”

Cesar’s face eases into a smile as he crosses his arms. “I’d like to take you up on your word about having sturdy feet, Dean. We could use an extra pair of legs around the ranch.”

“We?” Dean asks.

“Me and Jesse, my husband,” Cesar clarifies, gesturing to the stable some ways back and the adjacent house, an older structure with a flat top held together by Lincoln log-style rafters. “We moved in a few months ago. We used to work exclusively out of Mexico and Texas in the lumber business. This you see around us is our retirement fund at work. We need someone who’s good with the horses. At least until we can get on our feet.”

“You mean like a stable boy?” Dean asks.

Cesar bites his lip to keep a smile from spilling forward. “Sure, if you wanna call it that.”

“You said you used to work out of Texas,” Dean says.

Cesar nods. “Jesse, mostly. He knows his way around better than I do. If you’re still itching to go to Amarillo in a couple weeks, he can take you. He can be a little… grouchy, but he’s a good man.”

Dean’s brows lift that that, then he gives Cesar his hand again. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Oh, and you’re gonna have to sleep with the horses,” Cesar adds. “Hopefully that won’t be a problem.”

“Not at all,” Dean replies, and if he had a hat, he would tip it. He finally has a stable—no pun intended—job. Besides, horses can’t be _that_ bad.

***

Horses _are_ that bad.

Their dung is the size of Dean’s face and smells like a rotting taco stand, which makes no sense, because their diet consists of things that rot _Dean’s_  insides, apples, oats, grass—and the hay. If you instructed a horse to find a needle in a haystack, they would find it alright, because they would eat every last straw.

And the allergies. Being greeted by a bottle rocket launch of snot first thing in the morning isn’t uncommon.

This morning, he’s greeted by something entirely different: a statement, and a gruff one at that.

“You the help?”

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes, swearing he can still see constellations behind them as he stumbles forward to undo the hatch on the stall. As much as he’s grown distaste for hay, it actually makes for decent bedding.

As he nears closer, he sees a man a little shorter than Cesar, but respectively carries himself in his shoulders, where his red and black flannel’s draped. Where he’s lacking in hair, his beard makes up for.

“Depends,” Dean smarts with a groan as he stretches, “you the husband?”

Jesse’s eyes—a lot like Sam’s, gold mingling with brown, only with much more tenacity—narrow. “Cesar always had a thing for ‘lost souls’. You look more like a mule to me. What’s a mule gonna teach a horse?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe how to carry its own weight, for starters.”

“I don’t think you wanna start _anything_ with me,” Jesse growls.

Jesse steps dangerously closer, but Dean’s been in the face of dangerous. He’s watched his brother’s life fade out like smoke from the tail pipe of a diesel truck. He’s spent nights wasted everywhere from taverns to bridges. He’s learned how to burn the latter, but even that’s left him with irreparable scars.

So instead of biting back, Dean takes a step back and picks up the brush for the horses. He only turns back to say, “I look forward to working under you, Mr. Cuevas.”

***

“Not bad,” Cesar comments, his hand raking through Matty’s stark white mane with the gentleness of the wind passing through the small stable.

Matty’s the brown horse of the three. He’s also the oldest. It’s been almost a whole week since Dean arrived at what should be titled _Cuevas’ Barn and Blisters,_ but Matty’s still wary of Dean. He always has to peak his head over his stall to get a better look at what Dean’s doing. Dean’s learned quickly that Matty’s the real boss of the joint, because if he doesn’t back off, he’ll get bucked. Hard. He’s come close to it already.

Dean’s lip stretches a little to one side. “I try. You know, being ‘the help’.”

Cesar narrows his eyes at that. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Dean says. “So, Matty, huh?”

“Yeah,” Cesar replies, smiling a little to himself and to the horse, though Dean can’t help but notice the tension hidden behind his black-bearded jaw that’s soon to follow, “he’s named after Jesse’s older brother.”

Dean nods. “He must be a stand-up guy.”

“ _Was,”_ Cesar corrects, looking to Dean. “He died when Jesse was eleven.”

Dean blinks a few times and feels his something swell inside him like a strawberry growing off an old, weather-beaten vine and gets squashed just as easy.

Jesse, _the husband,_ Jesse.

God, he feels like such a dick.

Cesar breathes a sigh and nods as he opens the stall, “I think I’ll ride him today. C’mon, Matty.”

***

Later that night, after the horses are asleep, Dean sneaks out upon seeing the dimly-lit patio of the Cuevas’ house. The closer he gets, the clearer Dean can see the light: it’s indeterminate and restless, the way it blinks, much like himself. Only after Sam, Dean couldn’t see a light. _“I can take you to it.”_ That’s what his brother told him. Sam was always the more optimistic of the two of them.

The closer he approaches, Dean shoves his hands into his pockets and greets the man with a raspy, “Hey.”

Jesse, who’s sitting in a rocking chair like a classic retiree, looks up at Dean with the faintest curiosity. “Hey.”

“Everything okay?”

Jesse shrugs and thumbs the ring on his left hand, rather than the label on the beer bottle in his right.

“Mind if I sit?” Dean asks.

Jesse shakes his head.

After a moment, Dean chirps up, “You know, this is kinda weird. I mean, last time we had an actual conversation, you were hurtling insults at me left and right. Give me something.”

It takes a minute, but luckily Dean has nothing but time: “Your bowlegs make you look like John Wayne with a diaper rash.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Dean asks, raising a brow.

Another silence passes between them and the rustling of the wind between the trees. He’ll miss Albuquerque. The sunsets in particular. It’s passed now, but moments ago, the sky was laden with some of the brightest oranges and yellows on marshmallow-like clouds. The purple mingling with it just adds to the beauty of it. It makes Dean realize how much he’s been missing out on. He’s a wanderer, sure—it’s the _only_ thing he’s committed to—but even he fails to take note of these things sometimes.

One more beat passes, then Dean, on the topic of beauty and things to be appreciated, comes clean with it: “He loves you, you know.”

“Yeah,” Jesse replies, looking to the ground, fascinated with a weed growing through the pavement. “Yeah, he’s good.”

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That pause,” Dean says, gesturing to him. “You banging the guy that delivers your hay or what? Hell, I would, too. It’s almost as good as memory foam.”

Jesse looks up and scoffs, “Has anyone ever told you you assimilate a little _too_ well?”

“Sure. When I landed my ass in a holding cell in Bakersfield,” Dean says, to which Jesse narrows his eyes. “What? The food wasn’t half bad for a temporary stay.”

Another pause. Dean waits.

“Cesar grew up an only child.” Jesse shrugs. “He’s had his own troubles, but—”

“He hasn’t lost a brother," Dean finishes. "Yeah, I get that."

Jesse’s jaw drops. “You—? I’m… I’m sorry. For being such a dick, I mean. I hate it when people tell me they’re sorry for my loss.”

“Right?!” Dean scoffs, “What’s it even supposed to mean anymore?”

Jesse chuckles, “I have no idea. And now with the financial strain of buying the farm, you know, because we didn’t calculate just how expensive it all would be, it’s just… I wanna argue with him. Isn’t that weird? I wanna get up in his face and curse him until my throat’s stained with the words. But the pity, it’s just… always there.”

“Yeah.” Dean knows. He and Sam were orphans, but Dean’s gotten the look from strangers who don’t even _know_ his life story. He’s a better listener than a speaker. The physical demand of it is too much.

“Have you been in love?”

“Once or twice.” Dean pauses. “But not for long. I have to tear my gaze from the mirror eventually.”

Jesse shakes his head. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Well, at least I’ve upgraded from an ass to an idiot.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jesse smarts, though there’s no heat behind it this time as he takes a swig from his bottle. He smacks his lips a few times and watches as a fly gets zapped in the flowtron above them. “Well best of luck if and when you do. Hopefully they love you as much as Clarence.”

Dean nods, considering it only half-heartedly, then jokes: “I could never be that lucky.”

Before Dean can mull it over completely, the screen door opens, revealing Cesar, still in full-gear, minus the puffy coat. Jesse doesn’t so much as look behind him—he does something better. He stands up, turns around, and walks over to Cesar to grab his hand. Cesar’s melts with his almost instantly, just like his face when Jesse leans in and kisses him. Dean smiles.

Maybe he’s not as hapless as he thinks.

***

“I hope I never see you near the farm again, you hear?” Jesse yells over the roar of his truck.

Dean smirks and salutes him through the haze piling out from the exhaust pipe from where he’s standing outside the passenger door. “Raise Cain somewhere else. Got it.”

Jesse scoffs, “Bye, Winchester.”

“Bye, _Mr. Cuevas.”_

 

 


End file.
